


picture with an archer

by SilentProtagonist000



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Consent is Sexy, Dirty Talk, F/M, Nude Modeling, Porn with Feelings, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Resolved Sexual Tension, Self-Indulgent, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, a little spoiler-y just fyi, beta reading is for cucks, i haven't finished the game yet please be gentle, one-sided claudeth, title sucks as per usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24626671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentProtagonist000/pseuds/SilentProtagonist000
Summary: Vasily Kadinsky, 1909---Of course it wasn’t true, Byleth thought angrily, equal parts frustrated at Claude and the state of the pound cake. She’d been overjoyed to have all of her old students back, Ignatz included. He was so different now—he’d gotten taller, his shoulders were broader, and his amber gaze was steelier, but still rimmed with that classic Ignatz kindness. He still wore glasses, but didn’t look awkward anymore, just refined. He’d shared a bit of his art with her in quiet, stolen moments alone near the docks, and even his artwork had improved significantly.She wanted to model for Ignatz. Just to see how he interpreted her, of course.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth & Ignatz Victor, My Unit | Byleth/Ignatz Victor
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46





	picture with an archer

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to support me, you can email me at silentprotagonist000@gmail.com. I take commissions! [I'm also on tumblr! Come say hi!](http://terminal-decline.tumblr.com)
> 
> thanks to the MoMA website for giving me ideas for titling this lol

Claude von Riegan had always been a flirt.

That much, Byleth realized, hadn’t changed in five years. Claude was still roguishly handsome and had only grown more so, with alluring five o’clock shadow adorning his jaw and the gleam in his forest-green eyes never brighter in spite of the spoils of war. His arms were thicker and his smile, somehow, broader. The remnants of Garreg Mach were dwarfed in his sunshine.

“Still lovely as ever, Teach,” he said to her the first time they crossed paths again with a coquettish wink. In spite of herself, Byleth had to laugh because Claude was still _such_ a sleazy romantic, even after all these years. She adored him for it.

So adored him, in fact, that she agreed to tea with him again in the courtyard, just like old times; as the leader of the Golden Deer House, she’d taken to private tutoring sessions with him over teatime (and they were just that, _tutoring_ , no matter how much Claude’s elbow bumped into her or how often he slid her a smoldering gaze that she’d extinguish with another lesson on bow schematics. _I don’t date students_ , she’d told him, but Claude never listened to a damn thing she said). Claude seemed to brighten further when she’d said yes.

“Something to look forward to,” he said warmly to her as they approached the monastery’s kitchens, “in dark times.” Warm, but edged with frost.

 _Dark times._ He wasn’t wrong. _Father’s sword at his side, lance in his stomach, red bloom, drowned sputtering, Alois’s wounded wail, the clatter of blood-splattered armor_ —

They had tea set up in the courtyard twenty minutes later, Claude having picked an oolong brew that smelled particularly fragrant. The tea was hot and comforting—just like Claude (or really, not like him at all, Byleth knew better). Claude had even managed to procure some pound cake from the cupboards. It was the perfect teatime, although it was dusk and the sun had long set behind the battlements of Garreg Mach.

Claude leaned forward, indigo archer’s gloves whispering as he removed them and placed the pair beside his cup of tea. He clasped his hands together and gave Byleth his signature easygoing smile.

“So,” he said. “Sounds like Ignatz is looking for a sketch model.”

Byleth sipped her tea. Lorenz would like this brew, she thought aimlessly.

“Is he?” Byleth said absently, feigning disinterest even though her heart thudded wildly in her ears. “I didn’t know he was still doing art.”

Claude rolled his eyes. Byleth knew that wouldn’t fly—Claude put on mellow visage, but he wasn’t an idiot and Byleth had been pushing Ignatz to pursue his passion for painting since she’d taken over teaching the Golden Deer house. “Thought you might be interested,” Claude continued, moving on as if she’d said nothing. “Considering, you know.”

“Considering what?” Ignorance was bliss. The pound cake, she noted briskly, was dry.

“Considering you’ve been eye-fucking him since we came back here.”

Ah, _there_ it was, the crude, blunt Claude with a chip on his shoulder—the real Claude. Byleth adored this Claude even more than the façade. She silently took another sip of her tea. No doubt about it, Lorenz would _definitely_ like these leaves.

Arching a well-plucked, dark brown eyebrow at her, Claude smirked. “Or maybe even since we cleared out the bandits here five years ago?”

At that, Byleth scowled and put her teacup down on its saucer with a click. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snorted. Five years ago, Ignatz was a gawky teenager with wide, innocent eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and sock suspenders, muttering apologies to her in the library because she’d caught him reading about fine art. Byleth had done her time as a mercenary with dubious morals on lock, but she wasn’t attracted to teenage boys and she certainly didn’t date students.

Claude knew that, but Claude also wasn’t an idiot. Archers saw things; Claude had his perception honed to a killer’s instinct. He could probably hear her racing heart from across the table. He maintained the smirk. “You’re not denying it,” he pointed out.

Of course it wasn’t true, Byleth thought angrily, equal parts frustrated at Claude and the state of the pound cake. She’d been overjoyed to have all of her old students back, Ignatz included. He was so different now—he’d gotten taller, his shoulders were broader, and his amber gaze was steelier, but still rimmed with that classic Ignatz kindness. He still wore glasses, but didn’t look awkward anymore, just refined. He’d shared a bit of his art with her in quiet, stolen moments alone near the docks, and even his artwork had improved significantly.

She wanted to model for Ignatz. Just to see how he interpreted her, of course.

“Claude,” Byleth sighed, “I know you’re jealous because I never returned your feelings when you were a student, but you have to understand—”

Claude waved away the rest of her sentence with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “It’s been five years, Teach, I’m over it,” he said. “But for a mercenary, you’re really bad at hiding your feelings.”

“Bullshit,” Byleth cursed.

“You look at Ignatz like you’re about to devour him whole,” Claude said. “When we were practicing sparring yesterday and the way you watched him re-stringing his bow, I thought I heard a waterfall.”

Byleth wrinkled her nose. Okay, _sure,_ Ignatz was clearly an experienced archer by now—but he was a _knight_ and Byleth was a trained fighter who could recognize positive change in another warrior. He wasn’t even clumsy with his bow anymore—the practiced, focused way she’d watched him pull back the string in combat had evolved. So had the way his fingers glided across the pages of his sketchbook even more confidently than before. So had way he waxed and pulled a fresh bowstring taut between his teeth, the movements of his hands swift and deft. It made heat pool in her gut. _Wondering what else they’d gotten good at in five years._

She really, really wanted to model for Ignatz.

Claude did a palms-up. “In my defense, I’m just the messenger,” he said. “Just thought you might want to know that he’s looking for a model. That’s all.”

“Sure,” Byleth grumbled. The tea was getting cold. “Is that why you asked me for tea? To set me up with Ignatz?”

Claude clutched his chest in mock hurt. “It wounds me that you think this was an ulterior motive, Teach,” he sighed. “Is it not enough to have tea with your star pupil again, just like we used to do?”

Byleth scowled again.

“All right, maybe it was,” Claude conceded. “I do miss you, though, Teach. It’s good to be in the thick of the fight with you again. Never felt like I was in any real danger when you were around.” He reached for his teacup, but didn’t raise it up to his lips to take a sip, instead gazing down at the dark liquid with a wistful smile. “It’s not like that anymore.”

Byleth must have taken the moment of levity during their conversation about Ignatz for granted, because as soon as she saw Claude’s usual confidence—whether supported by his phlegmatic side or his more authentic, guarded self—wither into dust in the teacup, Byleth felt a heavy feeling settle in her stomach. They had to fight every day, was it too much to have some tea without talking about it?

 _Viscera, red, strewn on the earth, the sound of someone voiceless screaming, belching smoke on the horizon, Jeralt’s mercenaries pulling her back by the gauntlets as she stared at her father, lifeless, Alois_ wailing—

She blinked. Byleth reached across the table and placed her hand over Claude’s atop the teacup.

As he lifted his forest-green eyes to meet hers, the smile Claude gave her this time was rueful—and, Byleth noted, genuine.

He listened to her for once when she suggested that they clean up.

* * *

_Byleth was used to being thrust into things without her consent._

_Jeralt made the decision to train her to be a mercenary before she could walk, taking the burden of his grief over losing Byleth’s mother and placing it on her shoulders instead. When he’d begun her rigorous combat training when she was seven, he’d chosen a sword and shield for her when she really wanted to learn the polearm. He picked the contracts she went on—almost always benign, easily accomplished, seldom resulting in any casualties because Jeralt hesitated to throw her into danger._

_Byleth didn’t have any free will as the unwilling daughter of a contract killer. She was resigned to that._

_But though resigned, she still fought it under the table, with hushed tooth and nail. When she was sixteen, her father hired a freelance mercenary ten years her senior with a dashing eyebrow scar and vibrant blue eyes that gave her looks that implied something beyond professional camaraderie. So when his hands wandered further than they should have in front of the glowing ashes of campfires after Jeralt had gone to sleep, she chose to use her free will to not turn him away._

_She regretted it, of course. Three weeks later, the handsome nameless mercenary had dissolved into the fog when the job Jeralt hired him for was complete and she was alone with her father’s silent company next to her bedroll in the Fódlan wilds. Typical—Byleth used the one opportunity she had to make a choice for_ herself _and not for the good of her father’s mercenary company, nor her father’s sheltered, fragile position as the man who guiltily gave her life—it ended in a whimper._

_Byleth cried after the mercenary left. He’d held her in his muscular, scarred arms night after night, promising her the summits of mountains and a gaggle of children to accompany them. He’d gotten his fill and then he’d left her. Jeralt had warned her of such sirens as soon as she’d hit puberty with his muttered misandries of “men want nothing good from you” here and there. But Byleth was young and fresh and she knew nothing of consent._

_All the mercenary taught her was that her confidence was as good as the earth beneath her._

_So again, she allowed herself to be thrust into things without her agreement._

_She let Jeralt volunteer her to be a professor at the monastery. She let Lady Rhea order her and her band of child soldiers to take down bandits, Lord Lonato,_ other fucking members of the Church of Seiros. _She let Sothis choose her as a vessel, a successor. She_ let. _She never got to choose. Most of the time, she felt nothing towards those decisions—no animosity, but no warmth. She simply felt_ nothing.

_But then there was Ignatz._

_Lovely, sweet, innocent Ignatz. Child of a merchant with a glimmering aesthetic eye and a poor grip on his bow. Pushed into the Officer’s Academy by his father to become a knight, his duty as the second son. Sleeping in bedrolls in the Fódlan wilds underneath a canopy of stars, dreaming of a reality where he could be an artist. A young man used to being thrust into things without his consent. Even as his professor—a steadfast, platonic relationship—Byleth saw something familiar in Ignatz that she denied in herself._

_And when she laid eyes on him five years later, tainted by war and hardship and saw the hard, traumatized resolve in his amber eyes, she felt_ something _that Claude rightfully identified as not so platonic._

_They were one and the same, she and Ignatz._

_So she wanted to model for him._

* * *

“You want to _what?_ ” Ignatz asked with barely concealed shock. It was a day after Byleth’s conversation with Claude and she was now resolute in her approach to him. Ignatz was reading a book on a bench near the docks and, judging by the furrow in his brow, he was trying to look very convincingly like he was reviewing the theology of Saint Seiros.

Byleth pretended not to notice the way his hands scrambled to cover the title of the volume he was perusing— _History of Impressionism in the Adrestian Empire_ , easily concealed with his long, thin fingers. Byleth indeed noticed that his fingers were _long_ and _thin_ and she felt a little warm under her armor. “Model,” she repeated to him. “I heard you’re looking for a subject of your next painting, I want to—”

“ _You?_ ” Ignatz sounded incredulous, regarding her with a surprised stare behind the frames of his glasses. “I mean—I thought you—Professor, you have a lot going on, I have other models, you don’t have to—”

Immediately, Byleth felt her stomach twist into knots. She’d felt this once before, after she’d asked her mercenary one night after making love if he would stay with Jeralt’s company and he’d laughed wordlessly. Of _course_ Ignatz had other models lined up—he was warm-looking and handsome with a soft smile, the female warriors in the dormitories were probably lining up to be his muse. For a second, Byleth felt silly for having volunteered.

But she swallowed it. Ignatz wasn’t some anonymous mercenary with a thousand scars—he was _Ignatz_ and Byleth knew him better than she’d known most. He was nervous. She could see that.

For herself and no one else, she pressed him. “I know you do, but I’m… interested in seeing what your art looks like in practice,” she said. “I’d like to be your model. I humbly beg that you put me at the top of your list.” She smiled at him and she hoped it seemed placid and not reflective of the jumble of nerves in her stomach, vying for the championship of her throat.

She expected Ignatz to decline—maybe say that _oh, I’m sorry, someone offered first_ because he was just that considerate, or _I couldn’t imagine casting eyes on your ugly body for more than a few minutes_ because Byleth hated herself and she hated putting her needs and desires first, but instead, she saw Ignatz’s face overcome with… _joy?_ A shy grin split his face and he put the book face-down on the bench beside him and beamed up at her.

“In that case,” he said brightly, “how can I refuse a lady?”

Byleth hoped she wasn’t blushing as rigorously as she felt. “You don’t need to feel obligated,” she started to mumble, but Ignatz cut in gently.

“It’s no trouble,” he replied. “I’m happy you offered, actually. I’m painting a portrait of what I feel the Goddess looks like and…” He seemed to hesitate before the corner of his lips quirked into a sly smirk. “I can think of no woman on these grounds better suited to represent Her.”

The sunshine above Garrag Mach was harsh and demanding, not like the gentle rays she’d initially felt when she woke up this morning. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Ignatz just said she was a _perfectly acceptable stand-in for the Goddess?_ And said that _she was the best out of all_ _of the women in Garreg Mach?_ Byleth mentally flitted through the other beautiful women present at their side—Hilda, Lysthia, Marianne, surely multitudes of others closer to Ignatz’s age that better fit his picture of beauty—and yet she couldn’t deny how genuinely Ignatz was regarding her now, with a kind smile befitting of the boy she’d known five years ago and the man she knew now.

Byleth felt as if she were shrinking into herself. She _really, really, really wanted to model for Ignatz._

“Uh, good,” Byleth stammered, because she was a master orator. “Tomorrow?”

“Oh, of course,” Ignatz said, seeming startled; he must have read how suddenly flustered Byleth had become at his statement. “Does after dinner work with you? I’m training on the bow with Claude in the afternoon, but that can be moved if—”

Byleth cut in quickly, knowing that if Ignatz mentioned that he was painting her to Claude as an excuse to skip afternoon bow practice, Claude would never let her hear the end of it. “After dinner is fine!” she exclaimed. “Where should we meet? Your quarters?”

Ignatz seemed aghast at that suggestion. “Are you sure? Would you feel comfortable with that?” he asked, and Byleth almost felt like weeping. The mercenary had never asked her if she was comfortable with _anything_ , he just took as much as he gave. And here Ignatz was, asking for her _consent._

Unbelievable. Byleth was _ruined_ for Ignatz.

“That’s fine,” Byleth muttered. “I trust you.”

At that, Ignatz smiled and picked up the book again. “You can always trust me, Professor,” he assured. “I’ll be ready for you after dinner, then. I can give you more specific instructions once you arrive. You can wear anything you feel most comfortable in.”

Byleth nodded. “Understood,” she said. “I’ll leave you to it.” She smiled and gestured toward the book he was reading and Ignatz flushed a very charming red.

“I-I was just taking a break!” he defended.

“You can do whatever you’d like,” Byleth said, feeling more confident now that she had moments ago.

And that was where she left him—reading about Adrestian art on the Garreg Mach dock bench, thoughts swirling, innards clenching in anticipation for a tomorrow that was sure to come.

For the first night in many moons, Byleth did not dream of the day Jeralt died.

* * *

Nevertheless, Byleth awoke feeling as if she were a bundle of nerves.

The excited grip in her belly had, overnight, morphed from untenable joy to anxiety. She had felt so pleasant when Ignatz had agreed to paint her yesterday; why _now_ was fear sinking in? This wasn’t a battle, she told herself as she took her breakfast—gruel and lavender tea, something easy on the stomach. She wasn’t planning troop movements or unit flanking strategies—this was just Ignatz sketching her. There were no lives at stake for modeling for an artist.

And yet Byleth was terrified. Terrified at the thought of what she would do—the things she would feel under his watchful, detail-oriented gaze. The things she might do to herself, heated and keen as his subject. The things she might ask to do to _him_. She was terrified of having free will.

Byleth’s gut roiled in response to her thoughts—although this time, she wasn’t sure if it was nervousness or deeply repressed interest.

Around the time the sun began to dip low towards west, shadows elongating astride the windows in her room leading out to the monastery’s courtyard, Byleth felt like she was going insane. She had been drafting letter after letter to the scattered remains of the Church of Seiros, imploring for any scraps of reinforcements the other broken sects and bishops had under their tunics. However, the wads of scrapped paper were growing into a mountain beside her and Byleth could not stop her mind from wandering to wire-rimmed glasses and pale hair and a toasty, deep cadence of a laugh. Byleth tossed her quill angrily onto her desk, frustrated at her lack of focus, and resolved herself to blowing off some steam.

Of course, she decided to do so by sparring with Lorenz.

Of all of her old students, Byleth enjoyed training with Lorenz the most. Like her, he was a skilled swordsman—she didn’t have to dust off old mage knowledge like she did with Marianne or Lysithia, nor did she have to feel utterly outclassed by the deadly axe-wielding hands of Hilda or Leonie’s lance. Instead, with Lorenz, she got to go back to her roots—dueling with nothing but the clothes on their backs and single blades. Byleth felt comfort in routine.

Lorenz, Byleth noticed, had grown as much as the rest of her Golden Deer students had. Gone were the days of false bravado and hamfisted flourish in his combat—instead, Lorenz seemed much more confident in his abilities and didn’t feel the need to hide them behind fancy footwork. There was still a level of elegance in his parries and guards, but a powerful wall of five years’ honed skill supported it.

From sheer experience alone, Byleth was able to defeat Lorenz, but much less handily than she had in years prior. Lorenz beamed up at her from the sandy floor of the Garreg Mach training grounds and accepted her hand in truce once she’d removed her blade from the base of his neck.

“A wonderful fight as always, Professor,” he praised in his silky tone.

Byleth laughed. Lorenz was ever the flatterer. “I’m impressed,” she said. “You gave me a hard time. You’ve improved quite a bit.”

Lorenz smiled and sheathed his sword. His periwinkle bangs were stuck to his forehead, darkened and drenched in sweat—a sight that Byleth was sure he would have disparaged years ago, but he seemed to take in stride now. “I’ve practiced every move and counterattack you taught me,” Lorenz replied. “Consider me a product of your careful tutelage.”

Before she could reply, a muted laugh caught her attention. From the corner of her eye, Byleth saw a flash—a quicksilver whistle of arrow hitting air as it sailed, accompanied by the pleasing _thunk_ of its head hitting a target. As she turned to her left, she realized there were people training in the archery field of the training grounds—two forms, one with bronze skin and a husky chortle and the other with olive hair and a molten voice—

 _I’m training on the bow with Claude in the afternoon_ , Byleth vaguely remembered Ignatz telling her the evening before. She was suddenly reminded of that as she laid eyes on Ignatz and Claude, doing exactly that—practicing the bow, _shirtless_ , and _oh Goddess_ Ignatz’s back was to her and he had a long, jagged scar running diagonal across his spine. Byleth watched him pull the string on his bow taut as he loaded in another training arrow, the muscles in his forearms drawn tight in anticipation.

Any reply she had for Lorenz died on her tongue as she watched him level his bow with the target yards ahead, the sun highlighting the glistening sweat betwixt the flex of his deltoids. Ignatz had built lean muscle in his years as an archer and it _showed._ Byleth felt her mouth moisten.

“Ah, looks like we aren’t the only ones training right now,” Lorenz noted, very observant.

“Suppose you’re right,” Byleth contributed. Claude’s form, altogether broad and tanned, shrank into the backdrop as Byleth watched the slender bulk beneath Igtanz’s shoulders—beneath that _scar_ , deep and etching, clearly from the blade of the sword in the midst of a battle—released with the timing of his arrow. Byleth scarcely heard the arrow cut the air over the sound of the blood roaring in her ears.

Lorenz said something, probably about House Gloucester. His words were static.

As soon as Ignatz’s arrow sank the target, a near-perfect bullseye, Byleth foggily noticed that Claude had motioned to her toward Ignatz. She could have shrunk into atoms in the shadows and Claude still would have noticed her, lurking in the distance and watching Ignatz draw arrows as if it were her lifeline. As soon as Ignatz’s amber gaze shifted to her with Claude’s wordless gesture, eyes as wide and placid as they were when he was eighteen, he smiled broadly, and Byleth suddenly felt like she hadn’t bested _anyone_ in combat just now.

Lorenz said something, probably about having tea after this. Ignatz and Claude began to approach them, and his words were static.

“Teach,” Claude said, speaking first. “It’s a good day to train. The weather’s nice.”

That it was—the sun was warm, hot, _too hot_ , and there was a tepid brown glimmer upon her behind glasses that made her practically roast. “You two looked pretty good,” she said quickly. “You’ve grown.” She tried to put as much clinical distance between herself and her former students, thinking with the last dredges of her dignity that if she praised them like a teacher, this would all go away and stop haunting her.

But Claude was all dark, analyzing stares and he could tell when Byleth was retreating, so he pulled her back by the noose. “Me? Not _that_ much,” he chuckled. “I’ve just built some muscle is all. Raphael was a huge contributor.”

“Give yourself some credit, Claude,” Ignatz complimented, timbre gravid with hooded warmth that Byleth wished were directed toward her. “You’re been working hard, you deserve some recognition.” He flickered his eyes toward Byleth and spoke with a spark that Byleth couldn’t deny. “So much so that I think our professor was watching you. You ought to be flattered.”

Before Byleth could even react—even so much as shooting Claude a warning glare—Claude took the opportunity to strike. “Oh, Ignatz,” he said slyly. “I don’t think our dear Teach had her eyes on _me_.”

At that, Igantz regarded Byleth with a shocked stare, just as surprised as when she’d brought up the desire to model for him yesterday. Byelth felt the already tumultuous knot of emotions in her body twist into further disarray, met with the challenge of Ignatz’s unreadable expression. He seemed to be considering something, fighting internally with an enemy that Byleth could not see. She was in a breastband and pantaloons and drenched in palpable sweat; yet, she felt completely naked.

Lorenz had picked up a surprising bit of social nuance over the last few years and came to her rescue. “Well, I’m happy you two are so busy,” he began hastily, “but the professor and I have a new sweet apple tea blend that we were going to share after training. Professor, the pastries?”

Byleth blinked herself back into reality, dodging out of Ignatz’s inscrutable stare and into Lorenz’s safe one. Back when Lorenz was her student, she hated having tea with him, but now it suddenly seemed like the best idea anyone could have, ever. “Indeed,” she replied, swallowing her phlegm and tossing the training sword to her side. “Donuts and all that.”

Claude was practically seeping pride as he slung his arm around Ignatz with a grin. “Well, you two have fun,” he chortled. “Ignatz and I have a bit more training to do. Have to perfect the curved shot, you know?”

“Always a helpful skill,” he agreed as Bytleth slunk off. “I wish you two luck.”

As Byleth exited the training grounds, Lorenz was steadfast on her heels with a thousand questions that she hardly wished to answer.

Not with the vision of a scar on Ignatz’s back.

* * *

_When Byleth was fourteen, Jeralt got the scar on his cheek._

_He was fighting bandits—it was some assignment from an invisible Faergus noble family in the outskirts, but he took the bladed blow to the face with pride and didn’t even wince when Byleth insisted on patching it up in the safety of their shared tent._

_“I’ll be fine,” he assured her, unassumingly soft for his hulking form. Byleth barely knew Jeralt’s gentleness, something she’d assumed he’d only reserved for her mother—but, on rare occasions, he kept an arsenal of humanity just for his daughter. As expected of Jeralt’s mercenaries, Byleth bit her tongue as she sutured his wound, pretending to not react with concerned whenever he grimaced with each pierce or stitch. Still, he never complained as she sutured his skin back together._

_Byleth was impressed at how well it had healed—it was merely an afterthought in the hundreds of battle scars Jeralt had sustained over his career as a knight and mercenary. The ghost of the scar remained on his left cheek, however, a faded reminder of how mortal Jeralt, former commander of the Knights of Seiros, really was. On the surface, he seemed fearless. Invincible._

_But it wasn’t until he died that Byleth ironically understood his mortality. When he was bleeding out, unresponsive in Alois’s distraught arms, Byleth suddenly understood_ oh, he can die, he is dying right now. _And that was that. Alois grieving loudly on the sanguineous earth of the fallen and mourning his friend and Byleth stood by numbly as he sobbed._

_After Jeralt was given a traditional warrior’s burial by Lady Rhea, Byleth allowed herself time to wonder who Jeralt really was. Her father, despite her blood relation to her, let her know nothing of him as a person. She knew her mother had died right after she was born and had an inkling that Jeralt inadvertently blamed her for that—but she had no proof, because Jeralt hardly spoke to her outside of mission assignments that he needled her into agreeing with._

_Ignatz Victor wasn’t an assignment._

_She agreed to him long before he even realized he was something to agree with, before he was an established artist with more than eighteen years of secrecy to show for it. Byleth knew that even if he weren’t an artist—even if he were only a knight, all chivalrous demeanor and adumbrated lust—she would still have kowtowed to him. She would have let him have his way with her, even if he would never do it._

_He was an_ artist _and it was her free will to want to be his_ model _. She, to him, was the model of the Goddess._

_She was determined to be that._

_She was determined to be_ anything _to him._

* * *

Tea with Lorenz had been a nightmare.

Lorenz was a self-admitted fool, but he wasn’t blind. _A commoner?!_ He’d asked her multiple times throughout their bitter-tasting teatime. She drank the sweet apple blend ruefully as Lorenz probed her, silently wishing she’d gone fishing on the docks instead. Claude knowing her feelings for Ignatz was one thing, he could keep a secret; Lorenz had absolutely no tact. Byleth was convinced that even the fucking stray cats at Garreg Mach would know by the end of the day.

Following the least productive teatime she’d had in her entire life—shitty pastries and pound cakes notwithstanding---she noticed that the sun was setting and, with the suggestion of dusk, she was able to take her leave from the questioning eyes of Lorenz Gloucester.

And, with that dimming glow of the sunset below the horizon, she knew it was time.

In her room, Byleth took her time choosing what to wear to Ignatz’s modeling session. She checked and rechecked what she would wear—full armor? The allure of the dancer’s costume Dorthea had given her?—before she finally settled on a simple white-canvas long-sleeved shirt and black slacks.

In fear of Lorenz’s slippery tongue, she concealed herself beneath a hooded cloak that Bernadetta had lent her before the war and approached Ignatz’s room under the cover of darkness. He answered after one knock and Byleth noted that he was dressed just as casually as her, with a white cloth button-down and breeches that fit all too flattering on his hips. She was suddenly very grateful for the cloak that concealed her blush. Some foolish part of her thought that perhaps she wouldn’t be attracted to casual Ignatz, but that clearly wasn’t the case.

“Professor,” he said, all melting timbre, liquid enough for Byleth to wish she didn’t have the restraint to drop her clothes right there. “Thank you for coming. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Once ushered in and Ignatz closed the door behind them, Byleth got a chance to survey his room. Ignatz preferred to live modestly, she noticed—other than a few dusty piles of books, thick volumes with inscrutable titles on their spines, he didn’t have much. A few candles with low flames sat on his desk and nightstand by his bed, neatly made and with an easel placed in front it.

Yet despite the yawning emptiness of Ignatz’s room, there was no dearth of art on the walls. Ignatz had hung scores of his sketches and paintings on as much surface of the hewn stone walls as he could. Byleth saw canvases of pink hydrangeas and verdant fields, case studies of wyverns and fish and human beings. It was colorful, personal, and any fear Byleth had at the moment dissipated into the brushstrokes and charcoal lines on Ignatz’s artwork.

He was so talented, Byleth remembered. _What do I look like to him?_ Her heart thudded against her ribcage.

Igtanz was clearly prepared for a model’s presence, Byleth noted—he’d pulled his chair out from his desk and situated it in front of the small cluster of candles. As Ignatz took to his palette on one sinewy arm, he motioned for Byleth to sit. Byleth did so, leaning into the back of the chair as she made herself comfortable.

“Are you sure you can see?” Byleth gestured to the candles. There wasn’t much light in the room and even Byleth, with her perfect vision, was fuzzy on some of the details of her surroundings. She couldn’t imagine it was any easier for Ignatz.

Ignatz smiled and sat down on his bed, using his free hand to pick up a medium-sized blank canvas that was propped up against the skirt and place it on the easel. “I prefer to paint in low candle light, actually,” he said. “It brings out the warmer tones of someone’s features, especially someone like you.”

Byleth was thoroughly confused at Ignatz’s statement as he inspected a few pieces of sharpened charcoal to use to sketch her outline. “What do you mean by that?” she asked.

“Your eyes and hair are very dark,” Ignatz pointed out. “It takes a lot of attention from other aspects of your face. The candlelight will help me highlight some of your more muted features, like your cheekbones and the curve of your nose.”

“Oh,” Byleth said helpfully. She had no idea what he was talking about. Did Ignatz really scrutinize everyone’s faces like that, like he’d be ready to paint them at any time? Did he stare at other women so attentively? Byleth felt a rush of jealousy before she squelched it, hoping her disappointment didn’t reflect on her face.

Ignatz looked a little sheepish at that. “T-That isn’t to say that I don’t notice those features on you,” he stammered, scrambling for verbal purchase. “It’s just that, uh, your eyes, mostly. They’re very… distracting.” Was he _blushing?_ Byleth couldn’t tell, the lighting was too dim.

“Is that a good thing?” Byleth asked mirthfully.

That familiar unreadable expression from earlier in the afternoon was back on Ignatz’s face, but only briefly—it seems he’d won out against whatever he was grappling with, because he quirked the corner of his mouth up at her a bit, his dimple subtle and playful. “It’s a _very_ good thing,” he replied. The tone of his voice had changed and Byleth couldn’t place it.

Before Byleth could open her mouth and make a fool of herself, Ignatz motioned to her with his chosen piece of charcoal. “You’re pretty stiff,” he mentioned. “Can you be a little more dynamic?”

“Uh,” Byleth started. “Dynamic?” Ignatz was making less and less sense to her as each moment passed.

“Your body,” Ignatz began, squeezing one eye shut and holding his palm flat and vertical in front of her, as if pretending to bisect her, “has an imaginary line down the middle. Everyone’s does. If you sit straight up and down, that doesn’t make for very exciting art. Try striking a pose, but don’t make it too wild, you’ll have to hold it for a while.” He grinned. “Don’t want you cramping up.”

 _Ah_. Byleth understood what he meant now, far more so than the candlelight features quip ( _flirt?_ ). She crossed her left leg over her right and, leaning back slightly, placed her chin in her hand and propped herself up on her elbow on the desk behind her, pretending to think. She settled her gaze firmly to the left of Ignatz’s face, toward a yellowing sketch of a knight of Seiros hanging on the wall behind him. “Is this good?” she asked.

“Perfect,” Ignatz said. Lifting the charcoal up, he silently observed her proportions with one eye still closed his thumb and the pencil in front of him. After a moment, he opened his eye, nodded to himself, and began to draw.

The atmosphere was suffused in comfortable silence, the only sound filling the air being Ignatz’s pencil against canvas. Byleth surprised herself at how well she was holding her pose—she felt awkward at times and desperately wanted to stretch or fidget, but she was able to distract herself by assessing the mural of art above Ignatz’s bed. Every so often, she allowed herself the treat of focusing on Ignatz, watching him work with careful precision. He would flicker his gaze between her and the canvas, his eyes somewhat obscured by the reflection of the orange flames behind her in his glasses.

The way his arm moved, gliding across the canvas as he drew what Byleth knew were impeccable lines, his palette forgotten on his right knee for the time being, was fluid and sensual. There was something oddly arousing about being so closely regarded for such a long period of time—something disarming. Relaxing.

For tonight, there wasn’t a war going on outside. She wasn’t a professor or an army commander and he wasn’t a knight—they were just Byleth and Ignatz, an artist and his muse.

It felt so good. Byleth wanted to sit here forever.

After what felt like hours, Ignatz put the charcoal down on the lip of the easel. “I think I have a good start,” he said, his voice shaking Byleth from her peaceful reverie. “You can move now if you’d like.”

Sighing, Byleth broke her pose and stretched. Although he’d stopped drawing, Byleth vaguely noticed Ignatz’s eyes hadn’t left her. “Being a model is harder than I thought,” she confessed. Holding still was almost as difficult as wielding a sword in battle, she’d discovered.

“We can call it a night if you’d like,” Ignatz suggested. “I don’t want you getting all locked up. We’re heading down the mountain pass tomorrow, can’t have our commander sore.”

 _Ugh._ Byleth suddenly remembered that they were facing a rogue army tomorrow; for one of the first times in her life, she felt very annoyed at the reminder that she was going to have to fight someone and leave this tranquil sanctuary under Ignatz’s stare. “No,” she said quickly, perhaps too eager. “I can stay for a while longer.”

Ignatz’s shoulders slumped with what Byleth was sure was relief and there was a part of her that hoped it was because he wanted her to stay, not because he wanted to finish his piece. “That’s good,” he said with one of his signature placid smiles and Byleth felt like squirming again, but not because she was stiff. “Want to see what I’ve got so far?”

Byleth gave him a sharp nod and Ignatz laughed at her enthusiasm. His laugh was so _thick_ , Byleth noticed, low and deep with notes of embers. It made her skin tingle.

Ignatz turned the easel around and Byleth was instantly amazed.

He had translated her face near flawlessly onto paper—the shape of eyes, the slope of her cupid’s bow, the way the divets of her fingertips settled into the skin of her cheek and chin, all sketched with such precision that Byleth almost thought she was looking into a mirror. Ignatz was a quick artist; it was almost uncanny how well he’d managed to represent her, down to the deepness of her nailbeds.

However, she noticed that Ignatz hadn’t ventured any lower than the base of her neck; the drawing stopped right above what Byleth noted to be bare shoulders, her right arm holding up her head being the only limb he’d drawn. There was the faintest ghost of shading where Byleth assumed her collarbones were. She looked down at her shirt—it was thin burlap, but it covered her collarbones completely with only a sliver of an opening at the base of her neck.

“Not gotten to my body yet?” Byleth queried. He’d put a massive amount of detail into her face; she’d assumed he’d at least have a rough outline of her form started.

As if she’d asked him what color his smallclothes were, Ignatz flushed a deep red that Byleth could discern even in the candlelight. “Well, you know,” he stuttered out, “t-this is going to be a portrait of the goddess using your likeness, and, er, you know how uh, most artists… depict her?” His voice had gotten a little higher in embarrassment, sweeping up in pitch as he spoke in questions. “Without… without clothes?”

Byleth mentally reviewed every painting of likenesses of the goddess she had seen throughout Garreg Mach prior to the war and, to her recollection, Ignatz was correct—the nebulous goddess was always shown to be either completely naked or, at best, having a thin cloth covering her lap. She was often on horseback as well; _wouldn’t that be uncomfortable?_ She wanted to ask aloud, but Ignatz already looked like he was drowning in humiliation.

Noticing Byleth’s silence, Ignatz struggled to continue. “So I, uh, thought I’d finish the body later!” he said. “When you weren’t here, of course. I have, erm, quite a few nude studies I was going to use as a reference. But if you’re uncomfortable, I understand, I’ll scrap this whole project and start over—”

Out of left field, it clicked for Byleth—Ignatz wanted to draw her _naked_. _Oh, Goddess, give me strength._ He was going to put her head on a random nude figure and say it was the goddess. He was going to spend time alone with a portrait of her face and imagine her without any clothing.

Byleth felt a rush of wicked warmth in her core at the thought of Ignatz at his easel beneath a blanket of nighttime, his cheeks rosy as he worried his lower lip between his teeth, having discarded the nude reference he was using in favor of his imagination instead. How would he draw her breasts, her thighs? The patch of hair between her legs? Would he add the rungs of all her battle scars? _Would he be hard, maybe pressing the heel of his hand against himself, untying the laces on his breeches and—_

With a shuddering breath, Byleth managed to erase the image from her mind and compose herself. “Ignatz,” she said, interrupting him. “I’m not offended at all. This is a portrait of the goddess, it makes sense for you to draw her that way.” She gave him a reassuring smile and Ignatz appeared to calm down, the furrow in his brow lightening as he sighed in relief.

“I was worried you’d be offended,” he said, “although I wouldn’t blame you if you were. Are you sure you’re okay with me doing that?” There he went again, asking for her consent with a concerned stare and a small frown.

Byleth uncrossed her legs and noticed the sensation of dampness between them. _Damn it._

“Of course,” Byleth said. “You aren’t sharing this with anyone, right?”

Ignatz looked horrified. “Absolutely not!” he promised firmly. “I wouldn’t even imagine showing this to even an appraiser. I’ll be keeping it safe and secure.”

Spurned on by Ignatz’s sweet consideration and the ever-growing spark of arousal in her, Byleth felt a little bold in that moment. She spoke before she lost her nerve. “In that case, why not make it authentic?” she proposed, hoping that the excited quiver in her tone wasn’t noticeable.

Ignatz seemed to not read into it, his confused frown deepening instead. “What do you mean by that?” he asked.

Byleth wasn’t any good with words, so she decided to take off her shirt instead.

No part of Byleth enjoyed her body. She always felt herself to be nowhere near as attractive of many of the women she’d encountered during her work as a mercenary. She thought her breasts were too large and heavy, her nipples too dusky and swollen, her abdomen not flat enough despite the physical activity she subjected herself to daily. Even more repulsive were the scars—hundreds of them all over her torso, pockmarked from arrowheads and pink gashes from blades. There were even more on her legs, still hiding behind the protective cover of her breeches. Even when she was alone, she preferred to wear at least _something_ concealing her so that she wouldn’t have to look away from every mirror she passed.

But here, in Ignatz’s room, watching at how his eyes widened and pupils dilated as his gaze unabashedly raked over her body, Byleth had never felt more desirable. She felt like the Goddess herself.

Ignatz must have caught himself ogling, because he quickly averted his gaze, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed audibly. “Professor, you don’t have to—” he started, but Byleth cut in. She was on the warpath now, encouraged by how lustfully he’d just taken her in.

“I know I don’t,” she said. “But I want to.”

She stood and untied the drawstring on her breeches, allowing the fabric to fall and pool at her feet as she stepped out of it. As soon as she did so, Ignatz finally allowed himself to look at her again—and his gaze was _burning_. It traveled lower, assessing the plump curve of her thighs and the unyielding muscle of her calves before resting on the space between her legs. A wild thatch of hair rested there, just above her core, her inner thighs glistening from her arousal. Byleth knew that even in the low firelight, it was obvious that she was wet.

Ignatz bit his lip, just like he did in Byleth’s fantasy. Her pulse was positively _racing_.

“Do you want a closer look?” Byleth continued, laying the invitation just as bare as she was in front of him. “I’m happy to give you one.” Gods, was she happy to give him anything at all.

Ignatz nudged the easel to the side with his foot, as if clearing space for her. His eyes met hers and Byleth felt her breath escape her. When he was touching her, the mercenary had regarded her with something unrestrained, unbridled—hubristic in nature. Ignatz’s stare was almost reverential, as if he couldn’t believe that this was happening—but with the way his lips had parted slightly and how his breaths had become shallower, she could tell he wasn’t resisting it.

“Come here,” he said, voice gravelly with interest.

Byleth sauntered forward, settling herself astride to straddle his lap with her knees, throwing her arms over his shoulders. She could feel the muscles she’d watched so intently this afternoon during archery practice beneath his shoulder blades, splaying her palm across where she thought the crux of his scar was. He smelled of sweat and charcoal dust. Another heady flood of arousal washed over her like a tide.

She nestled her nose into the crook of his neck, breathing in deeply, taking in more of the intoxicating scent, enveloping herself in _Ignatz Ignatz Ignatz._ “Please touch me,” she whispered into the shell of his ear.

Byleth felt his smile against the top of her head as he leaned into her. “How can I refuse a lady?” He echoed his sentiment from the day before as he slid his hands up her sides. At the first contact of his fingers against her skin, Byleth gasped—it felt almost like lightning, the mellow way that the rough skin of his hands and the callouses on his fingertips, dense from archery and artistry, caressed her. She sank into his touch as one of his hands, smoky from the charcoal, brushed against the swell of her breast.

“Goddess,” Ignatz rasped. “You don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to touch you like this.” He rolled a thumb over her nipple and Byleth whimpered at the twinge of pleasure that rocked through her at the gesture.

“Yeah?” Byleth murmured. “How long?”

Ignatz didn’t respond right away, opting instead to mouth along the exposed skin of Byleth’s neck, nipping at the apex where her jaw and neck met below her ear. He laughed, breathy and alluring, into her skin as she whimpered.

“Since you came to the academy,” he said, on the cusp of a growl. “Seeing you in class was torture. It’s a crime to have such a beautiful professor, you know. Too much for a hot-blooded teenage boy. I can’t even count the number of times I got off in my room thinking about you.” He pulled back long enough to look her in the eyes, pressing his forehead against hers, breath hot against her lips. Their noses bumped clumsily. “I was even planning on asking you to be my first.”

In any other scenario, Byleth would have been mildly unsettled at the suggestion—she didn’t date students, no matter how close in age they were to her, and she’d spent plenty of time in her early days at the monastery fending off Sylvain and Claude’s ministrations. But here, on Ignatz’s lap when they were five years older and her hole soaked, she felt herself nearly go limp. The image was bright in her mind—eighteen-year-old Ignatz, hair longer and curling under his ears, the slight barely-man that he was, blushing and not meeting her gaze as he fumbled in his request to _please teach me how to please a woman, professor, I’ll do anything you ask._

Byleth did _not_ date students, but she wasn’t sure how much restraint she could have shown if Ignatz really had asked that of her.

“Too bad,” Byleth said. “I would have taken you into my room and showed you everything you needed to know.”

Ignatz chuckled again, his hand once more venturing to her breast, squeezing appreciatively. “Maybe I still need some lessons,” he said, the smirk evident in his voice.

Byleth responded by snaking one hand into his seaform tresses. His hair was incredibly smooth and soft in her fingers. Gone was the chivalry he had been trying so hard to show earlier as she was peeling off her layers; his gaze was lust-filled, but not urgent nor crazed, as Byleth had been used to seeing in the nameless mercenary. Ignatz was analyzing her, parsing her, drinking in every detail of her form—he looked like he wanted to take his time with her. _Appreciate_ her. He was regarding her with so much respect, so much care… with…

She realized that she was shaking.

Ignatz’s face shifted from aroused to concerned when he noticed her shivers. “Byleth?” _Oh, he said her name._ Not _professor,_ but _Byleth._ Why did Byleth feel, again, like she was going to cry? “Is everything okay? We can stop anytime you’d like.”

Byleth shook her head and let her head fall back to the safe space of his shoulder. “No,” she said, choking back the emotion. “I mean, yes, everything is fine. Everything is so, _so good_ , Ignatz. _You_ are so good.”

Byleth felt Ignatz’s slender, strong arms encircle her as he pulled her closer to him, wrapping her in a tight embrace. He placed a chaste kiss—the first they’d shared that night, she realized—on her neck and nestled her face into her hair. “Oh, Byleth,” he sighed. “I’m sure it took you a lot of courage to come here tonight. Let’s go slow, let’s not rush into anything. I care about you, and we don’t have to continue.”

 _I care about you_. Byleth was definitely crying now, but the beige burlap Ignatz was wearing absorbed her tears. “No,” she sniffled, trying to regain her composure. “I’m not upset, Ignatz, I’m just so… I’m so _happy_. You’re the first man who’s treated me like this, like—like I’m not a piece of meat.” The first man to say _I care about you_ other than her father, who almost never did himself and saved one final _I love you_ for his dying breath.

“What? _Really?_ ” Ignatz was appalled. “Who would treat you like that? You’re gorgeous, but you’re also such a wonderful person.” The hand he had on her breast came up to rest on her cheek. Byleth couldn’t help but nuzzle into it, comforting callouses and all. He looked at her with pure adoration, a gleam in his eye. “You’re intelligent, you’re charitable with your time, you excel at seeing people’s strengths. The fact that you look as stunning as you do is just a bonus.” He kissed her on the tip of her nose. “A bonus to the amazing package that is already Byleth Eisner.”

Byleth felt reduced to a puddle at his praise. It wasn’t fair, how was Ignatz Victor just so perfect? He was talented, powerful, and compassionate. She really was utterly ruined for him. “You’re going to make me cry again,” Byleth giggled, although the well of emotion within her was already beginning to subside. “Why are you so kind to me?”

The invisible enemy was back in Ignatz’s countenance as he appeared to be carefully weighing what he was about to say next, but Byleth found that he was getting much quicker at going with his conscience.

“Because I love you, Byleth.”

The air was stolen for her lungs— _what a conscience it was_.

Byleth exhaled steadily, Ignatz’s confession warming her from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. She was suddenly very aware of the weight of his hands on her bare back and just how pleasant they felt. She wanted them on her all night—and in the morning, too. And tomorrow night. And every night after that. She wanted him to tell her all the things he loved about her on a regular basis and she wanted to do that, too. Because Ignatz Victor was generous with his kindness and devilishly attractive and deadly with a bow and a sketchbook and charming, but never to his own benefit. Because she— _oh Goddess—_

“I think,” she said, not breaking eye contact for a single moment, “I think I love you too, Ignatz.”

A wide, elated grin split Ignatz’s face as he gathered her even closer in his arms and held her tighter, his grasp on her a delightful vice. “Oh, thank the Goddess,” he praised. Kisses peppered their way across her face—both eyelids, her forehead again, both cheeks, and finally a peck on her lips—as Ignatz smiled so hard against her that Byleth was concerned it would hurt him. “Thank _you_ , Byleth. Oh, thank you so much.”

“I love you,” she said again, feeling the texture of the rare phrase on her tongue—and Byleth found she liked it quiet a lot. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Ignatz sighed. “I hope that if this is a dream, I never wake up.”

Byleth giggled and lightly pinched his cheek. “Are you awake yet?” she asked him impishly.

“I’m a little in shock,” Ignatz admitted, taking her hand in his and threading their fingers together. “But I’m so excited that you feel the same way. I promise you, I’m going to be the best—” He stopped, almost hesitating. “Should I put a label on this yet? Is it okay with you to—”

Byleth huffed in mock indignation. “I can’t believe my own _boyfriend_ is trying to get out of dating me,” she said. Her statement came off with the perfect amount of dryness, because Ignatz was smiling that contagious grin again at the term.

“Boyfriend,” he breathed. “And you—you’re my girlfriend. Is this real?”

Abruptly, Byleth remembered that she was sitting in Ignatz’s lap completely in the nude and decided that she was very much interested in celebrating their new relationship—and in continuing where they’d left off. With a mischievous swipe of her tongue, Byleth leaned toward Ignatz’s ear and traced the outside of it with the tip. “As much as I’d like to pinch you again,” she murmured, “I think I know of something better.”

To emphasize her point, she rolled her hips forward and found that despite her breakdown, Ignatz was _hard_ and only the thin layer of canvas in his breeches separated her core and his cock. She heard him suck in a breath as she ground herself on him again, her desire sprouting forth again like a springtime bud.

“Oh, that’s _so much better_ ,” Ignatz moaned. Byleth noticed that his already deep voice dropped an octave when he was aroused and that made her gnaw at her lower lip in an effort to stay focused. Without warning, Byleth felt him reach between her legs and spread her soaking folds with two fingers and she yelped with surprise.

“I can’t believe you weren’t wearing anything under your clothes,” Ignatz rumbled. “And you were so wet. Were you excited, modeling for me? I’ll bet you wanted to be naked in front of me from the start.” His thumb encircled her clit and he leered at her as she responded with a strangled groan, rutting into his fingers. “So exposed and vulnerable. So _ready_ for me.”

Byleth whined—the combination of Ignatz’s words and those skillful fingers she had spent so many hours watching on his bow in battle and on the training grounds was fatal as desire inflamed her. One finger worked its way inside of her and Byleth felt as if she were going to explode.

“I’ve thought about this so much,” he said, tone thick and luring as honey, his amber eyes engulfed with lust. “Thought about pleasing you with my hands. I’ve seen the way you look at them when I’m using my bow. I’ll make you come again and again with them. I’ll do anything. You. Want.” He interspersed each word with a slow, open-mouthed kiss on her shoulders, suckling on her collarbones as his pace quickened. A second finger joined the first; Byleth mewled, unable to speak.

Byleth felt the familiar ache building in her, the tightness of a bowstring ready to snap. “Ignatz,” she gasped, almost humiliated with how quickly he was making a mess of her. “I can’t, it’s so much—” Ignatz curled his fingers inside of her, hitting an invisible spot Byleth had scarcely found herself and she moaned, long and loud, her climax just out of reach.

“Yes, you can,” Ignatz soothed. “You can take it, darling. I’ve got you.” He looked ready to devour her and Byleth would have let him—because she _wanted to_ and because _she could_ and _she trusted him._ “Come for me.”

With that, Byleth’s orgasm plunged through her like a spear, letting out a cry as she shook, clenching around Ignatz’s fingers. Her vision went white for a moment, one misty thought breaking the surface of her daze: _no one except herself had made her come like that._ Her body slumped into Ignatz, the aftershocks holding her in their gratifying grip.

“ _Wow,_ ” she heard Ignatz say between panting breaths, his voice distant, as if he were speaking to her from the bottom of a well. “That’s incredible. _You’re_ incredible.”

Once she had collected herself, Byleth saw a brand-new emotion on Ignatz’s face, one she had never seen him wear before—smugness as he removed his fingers from her, an expression that declared _I just made my old professor and a major icon of the Church of Saint Seiros come with my fingers alone_. “Proud of yourself?” she teased him.

“Preening,” he said. He lifted his hand to his mouth and, expression locked on her, drew in to lap at one of the fingers that had been inside of her. Byleth felt like she was going to _die_.

“And you taste so sweet,” he purred. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Byleth felt dizzy from the rush of the idea of Ignatz’s head between her legs—but there was plenty of time for that later. Right now, she was very aware of how hard Ignatz was, his cock straining against the drawstring on his pants, throbbing and hot beneath her. There was nothing she wanted more than having him inside her, right now.

Always the gentleman, Ignatz tried to sputter a protest as she reached between them to fiddle with his breeches. “Byleth, we don’t have to—” he began, but Byleth silenced him with a kiss, her tongue swiping at his bottom lip, requesting access. Sighing, he parted his mouth to her and groaned into her lips as her hand found its target.

Pulling back, a sloppy strand of saliva connecting them, Byleth winked. “You’re too kind,” she said coyly, “but I have to have you inside of me right this instant.”

Ignatz chortled and shook his head, emitting a faint grunt as Byleth stroked her hand along his velvety length. “You know me,” he said. “I couldn’t deny you anything.”

Pulling his cock out from his pants, Byleth sized up her prize. His shaft was lean but long, a vein running up the underside and stopping just at the base of its head, flushed with a purple tinge. It twitched with interest as she wrapped her fingers around it and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

“I’d love to return the favor,” Byleth said. “See how _you_ taste.”

“Next time,” Ignatz rasped. “You’re driving me crazy, Byleth.”

Byleth winked at him again before angling her hips above his length. Slowly, she lowered herself onto him, feeling his shaft pulse as she took every inch of him inside her. She let out a tremulous moan as she tried to speak, _tried_ to verbalize how spectacular it felt for Ignatz to split her open like this, but she couldn’t—her tongue felt laden with cotton as her eyes rolled to the back of her head. First thrust and he already had her fucked dumb.

Ignatz seemed to share the sentiment as his hips stuttered in response, an eager snarl reverberating in his chest like a roll of thunder. His eyes were glassy, half-lidded. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hissed, drawing the curse out as if a plainsong. His hands wandered down to her hips as he filled his hands with the flesh there

A roguish part of Byleth felt like teasing him with a slow roll of her hips, lifting herself up and slowly, agonizingly, impaling herself again with a cheeky smirk. “Feel good?” she said with a titter prowling on the edge of her voice. She relished in the way his jaw, sharper than it had been five years ago, set as he grit his teeth.

“ _Byleth_ ,” he said hoarsely, his grip on her hips bruising. “You’re making it hard for me to hold back.” Even consumed with a scarlet blush and his gaze locked on her like he was starved, he was asking for her permission to take her. Her _permission_. A thrill of something flurried through her—a bolt, she realized, of power. Control.

Consent. She wanted him to take her.

She wriggled on Ignatz’s lap. “So don’t,” she commanded him.

Ignatz’s hold on her tightened even harder as he obeyed, thrusting into her like a beast unchained from a five years’ amalgamate of greed and desire and pure love, practically holding her into place as he drove himself into her. Each lunge made Byleth’s breath catch in her diaphragm, stars clouding her vision as she felt completely consumed by a pleasure that she couldn’t even begin to describe with words.

She was approaching the precipice again, she realized hazily as Ignatz’s thrusting quickened. She had gotten so lost in the rhythm of their bodies moving together and how unimaginably good it felt that she hardly noticed how close she was to coming again. It didn’t seem that Ignatz was going to last, either—not with the way the way the rough snap of his hips began to falter and grow more erratic, more desperate.

“Byleth,” he gasped, his face tucked against her, their breaths panting in near tandem. “Byleth, I love you.”

“Please,” she whimpered, not knowing what she was asking for, but Ignatz seemed to understand anyway, reaching around to roughly rub her clit with his fingers. The archer’s callouses she knew now that she loved so much seemed to be exactly what she needed, the gust to push her ever closer to the cliff. Byleth choked out a cry, throwing her head back.

“Not—” Ignatz stuttered. “I’m—I’m going to—”

“ _Please_ ,” Byleth repeated like a canticle, giddy at the thought of Ignatz coming inside her, walking around the monastery the next day with his spent sliding down the inside of her thigh—staking his claim on her, _owning_ her but not _possessing_ her, and how much she _wanted wanted wanted_ —

Her fantasy was not far behind the forceful gale of her second orgasm, as the sensation of her core clenching around him causing Ignatz to sheathe himself to the hilt inside her before releasing rope after rope of his seed, cock twitching against her walls. Byleth felt herself go boneless against him, melting into his embrace as Ignatz came with a shout.

As their pulses slowed and the afterglow settled around Byleth’s shoulders, she felt Ignatz press a close-lipped kiss to her cheek. “You,” he murmured, “are extraordinary.”

“I _love_ you,” she said, dreamily, surrounding herself in Ignatz’s scent of charcoal and sweat once more, this time tinged with the musk of sex, pulling off him to adjust her position and settling once more on his lap. “Want to be here forever.” And it was the truth. Ignatz was ridiculously cozy and she already felt like she was about to fall asleep.

Ignatz chuckled. “We can start with tonight,” he said. “Stay?”

In lieu of an answer, Byleth slid off Ignatz and threw back his covers and burrowed beneath them, pulling the sheet up underneath her chin. She peeked out at him with a beckoning stare and Ignatz’s chuckle returned.

“All right, all right,” he said mirthfully. He fixed his clothes, tying the string on his breeches once more and straightening his shirt as he slipped under his blanket. He placed his glasses on the pillow behind him and gathered Byleth in his arms once more. He pecked her on the forehead as she snuggled deeper into him, seeking his warmth. Byleth noticed all of a sudden that she felt very, very sleepy.

“Was that a good close look?” she mumbled drowsily.

“The best,” Ignatz replied.

Byleth was used to being thrust into things without her consent—including sleep right then, because she wished she could stay awake and enjoy this moment forever.

* * *

_Tonight was the second night in a row that she did not dream of Jeralt’s death._

_Instead, she dreamed of her father’s tight-lipped smile. The way he grimaced when she stitched his cheek scar. How he took the more dangerous assignments himself. How wistfully he regarded her mother’s grave at Garreg Mach and how small he seemed with a bouquet of flowers in his fist._

_How he seldom said_ I love you, _but he said it to her as he was dying in her arms._

_And how, she realized as she began to emerge from a soundless ocean of sleep, she would hear it again from someone new in the morning._

* * *

The afternoon sunlight streamed through the window in Ignatz’s room as Hilda rooted around, nudging over book piles and grumbling as a cloud of dust launched from a tower she’d just knocked over.

“Stupid Ignatz,” she groused. _Why_ did she agree to train with him today, anyway? They weren’t even the same type of fighter, his arrows just bounced off her heavy armor and she would always stand there feeling like an idiot. Half her training sessions with Ignatz always resulted in him asking her to fetch something he forgot, anyway—did he even know how fucking long it took to take off armor?!

 _Getting my bow oil is karma_ , Ignatz had laughed as she begrudgingly departing the training grounds as his behest, _for all the times you dumped your chores on me when we were in school._ Hilda had noticed that he seemed a bit brighter than normal—there was a deeper bounce in his step, more levity to his words.

Did he really get that much pleasure out of bothering her? “Asshole,” she sniffed to herself.

Hilda was feeling the divine retribution indeed—Ignatz’s room was so damn stuffy that she was surprised he got any work done. Although, she supposed she had to give credit to the pages and pages of beautiful art hanging on his walls; an unintended treat, she supposed as she rifled through his desk where he told her he kept his bow oil.

She finally located the vial in one of his drawers and, grateful to be done with this disgusting task, turned to leave. In her haste, her foot caught on the rung of Ignatz’s easel, propped up next to his bed and the canvas on it facing the wall. In an instant, it went tumbling down, the sound of clattering wood filling the air as Hilda’s stomach dropped.

“Oh, Goddess’s tits!” she swore. She dropped the bow oil and scrambled to set the easel upright, hoping that whatever Ignatz was painting wasn’t ruined, because then he _definitely_ would find a way to make an arrow penetrate her armor. Once the easel was situated again, she kneeled to pick up the canvas as she laid eyes on the subject.

And she _gasped_.

Oh, now she couldn’t _wait_ to give Ignatz his damn bow oil.

**Author's Note:**

> I did nude modeling for art groups when I was in grad school, it's very unsexy. a man once called me a "poor man's natalie portman"


End file.
